


Whispering

by irrationalgame



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 06:17:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrationalgame/pseuds/irrationalgame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy is sick and it seems a song from Mr Barrow is the only cure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispering

Jimmy sat, or rather flopped, down into a chair for breakfast. He looked awful; his face pale and sallow, his brow wet with sweat, his livery in disarray. Mr Carson took one look at the footman and dismissed him for the day.

"Get yourself back to bed James," Carson boomed, "you're in no fit state to work."

"I'm fine, really I am," Jimmy replied, before breaking into a rather contradictory coughing fit.

"I hardly think Lord Grantham wants you spluttering all over his breakfast," Carson frowned, "and nor do I for that matter. Now go, off with you."

"You look terrible," Mrs Hughes added, pouring herself a cup of tea, "And I'm sure Mr Barrow won't mind stepping in for you this morning, given the circumstances."

Thomas glanced up from the morning paper, eyebrows raised. The two men exchanged an awkward, weighted look. As much as Jimmy tried to put the past behind him, he just couldn't forget what had happened between himself and Mr Barrow. Nor could he erase the memory of how Thomas's lips had felt against his own, much to his growing unease. Just thinking of it caused Jimmy's stomach to tie itself into a hot, groaning knot. And Jimmy had lost count of the number nights he had awoken from fitful dreams of Thomas, in his undershirt, once again invading Jimmy's bed. Jimmy flushed at the thought.

"Of course," Thomas smiled earnestly, "If he's really unwell, I don't mind."

"Thank you," Jimmy said shortly, "I appreciate it."

~

Jimmy retreated to his room before quickly pulling the livery off his shaking, clammy body, and leaving it in a discarded pile on the floor. It would all need pressing again, but he was too sick to care. It was a relief to snuggle back into his bed and bury his face into the cool cotton of the pillowcase; if he closed his eyes and lay completely still he could almost stop the room from spinning. He wanted desperately to sleep, to rest his aching limbs, and to hopefully wake up feeling better. But he was too hot. And cold. And shivery. And uncomfortable. Jimmy sighed and rolled over, wrestling with his pillow, settling for quietly resting his eyes. 

Jimmy dozed for some time, his flu-ridden body never properly achieving the sleep it longed for. There was a light knock at the door; probably someone checking he was alright. Jimmy couldn't be bothered with company so he didn't answer, instead choosing to feign sleep.

The door creaked open slightly and Thomas slipped in, a tray in his hands.

"Jimmy?" Thomas whispered, "I've bought you some chamomile tea..." Thomas paused, realising Jimmy was 'asleep', before quietly setting the tray down on Jimmy's nightstand. He reached out and placed a cool hand on Jimmy's forehead, checking his temperature and lingering a little longer than he needed. Jimmy froze, very aware of the way his throat tightened at Thomas's touch, of the goosebumps that tickled his spine and the quickening of his heart in his chest. He could feel Thomas's eyes on him; uncomfortable as he was, surely it was too late to reveal he was really awake?

"You're burning up," Thomas muttered to himself, finally removing his hand, "and look at the mess. Mr Carson will have a fit if he sees this." 

Jimmy risked opening one eye just enough to see what Thomas was to; he was picking up the discarded clothes and neatly folding them, humming softly as he tidied. A smile played over Jimmy's lips as he listened - it sounded like something by Paul Whiteman. Thomas was usually so guarded around other people and Jimmy had never heard him so much as whistle, let alone hum. He wondered if Thomas could sing.

Thomas piled Jimmy's livery onto a chair and turned to leave, still humming. It was definitely 'Whispering' by Paul Whiteman.

"I didn't know you were a Paul Whiteman fan," Jimmy said, sitting up in bed. Thomas stopped, one hand on the door knob.

"How long have you been awake?" Thomas asked, walking back to Jimmy's bedside. His brow was furrowed, his cheeks burning with a blush. He pulled up a chair and seated himself beside Jimmy's bed.

"Long enough," Jimmy grinned, despite feeling rotten. "Can you sing too, Mr Barrow?"

"Not well enough for an audience," Thomas shook his head.

"Maybe I should be the judge of that," Jimmy teased. "Why don't you give me a song Mr Barrow, I'm sure it'd make me feel better."

"It would give you a good laugh, I'm certain," Thomas frowned, not sure if Jimmy was joking or not.

"I mean it," Jimmy reached for the chamomile tea, warming his hands on the cup. "Go on."

Thomas just stared, his mouth agape. Finally, he cleared his throat and tentatively started to sing:

"Don't worry I'm not looking at you, gorgeous and dressed in blue. Don't worry I'm not looking at you, gorgeous and dressed in blue. I know it drives you crazy, when I pretend you don't exist, when I'd like to lean in close and run my hands against your lips..." Thomas trailed off, a deep hue of red flooding his cheeks.

"Well you won't be selling out a thé dansant any time soon," Jimmy smiled, leaning towards Thomas "but you're not bad." 

Jimmy closed the space between them, taking Thomas's blushing face in his hands and pressing his lips desperately against the under-butler's. Thomas froze, shocked, before slowly softening and drawing Jimmy into his arms. They kissed with passion, fear, and relief as years worth of yearning was finally fulfilled. Thomas's hands found their way into Jimmy's hair, his tongue into Jimmy's mouth. When they finally parted Thomas's eyes were glassy with unspilled tears.

"Jimmy," Thomas started, unsure how to continue.

"Don't talk," Jimmy smiled, clutching Thomas's injured hand between his own, "I can't talk of this, or think. Not now. It's too...too..." He shook his head.

"It's alright. Talking wasn't what I had in mind," Thomas replied, squeezing himself beside Jimmy in his small bed. "You're ill. Let me just be here with you," he said, wrapping his arms around Jimmy, "That's all I want."

Jimmy nodded and let his head rest in the crook of Thomas's neck. He'd worry about the details later; overthinking had only made him miserable thus far.

Resting in Thomas's arms, Jimmy finally managed to get some sleep.


End file.
